


Safe

by lookninjas



Series: The Man Behind the Curtain (Ben!verse) [7]
Category: Glee
Genre: Assault, Bullying, Homophobic Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 02:23:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6101643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookninjas/pseuds/lookninjas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine's father always wanted him to go to Dalton, but Blaine was convinced he would be safer at a regular school.  He was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the [ben!verse](http://lookninjas.livejournal.com/tag/ben!verse). This deals primarily with the Sadie Hawkins incident and its aftermath, although there is some Kurt/Blaine at the end. This fic could be upsetting, so please read with caution.

The thing is, his dad kind of wanted him at Dalton all along.

Blaine's dad loved Dalton. His favorite students came from Dalton. His best friend taught at Dalton. Dalton, he said, nurtured talent. Not that there weren't exceptional students at public schools, of course not -- exceptional students were everywhere. But at a public school, they had to fight for it. They had to struggle. No one had to fight at Dalton. They could just flourish, safe in their talent and the promise of their eventual greatness. It was everything he'd ever wanted for Blaine: someplace where he could be recognized for everything he was. Someplace where he could be amazing. Someplace where he could be _safe_.

There was just one problem.

The problem, of course, was Blaine.

It wasn't that Dalton didn't sound like a cool place. It sounded great. Just... great for other people. For smart people, mostly; for people who actually had some kind of exceptional talent, something worth nurturing. Blaine didn't really think of himself as that kind of a person. He did well in school, and he didn't have to work really hard for it, but that wasn't the same as being a genius. And yeah, he liked to sing, and he liked to play piano, but he could do that anywhere.

Anyway, he felt safe enough just going to the same school as everyone else he knew. Safer, maybe. Because he would have friends there; he wouldn't have anyone at Dalton, and the thought made him a little nervous. He didn't want to be the new kid. Especially not if this was the year (and it _was_ the year; he'd already decided), that he came out. The idea of being the new kid _and_ the gay kid seemed a little too intimidating, a little too much; it just seemed like it would be easier if he was with people he already knew.

There would be bullies. He didn't deny that. There already were. But really, it was just one kid who tried to trip him up during gym class, and a few others who whispered... Well, they whispered about him, the same way they did about everyone, really. But that wasn't so bad, was it? Everyone had to deal with stuff like that. It didn't mean he wasn't safe where he was. It didn't mean he couldn't stay.

Really, he had no reason at all to go, other than his dad wanted him to. And for once, that wasn't enough.

It was the first time he and his dad had really fought about anything, and he hated it. He hated that his dad was disappointed, that he didn't understand; he hated that he couldn't be what his dad wanted, and he hated that his dad didn't seem to want him to be who he was. He hated everything about it, but he didn't back down. He was doing the right thing. He _was_.

And in the end, his dad gave in, and Blaine got to go to his normal school, with his normal friends, and he was relieved. Dalton sounded great and everything, but this school was home. This school was _safe_.

 

*

 

He was safe.

He kept telling himself that, as September turned into October and the word got around, as more and more people stopped seeing him as the short kid or the kid with the curly hair and started to see him as "that gay kid." It was okay. He was safe. Even if most of the kids he'd thought were his friends had stopped talking to him or even _looking_ at him; even as the whispers about him started to get louder, started to turn into shouts; even as more kids seemed to go out of their way to trip him up in gym class; even as they started shoving him in the hallways. He was safe. He was _safe_. Maybe it was a little weird right now, but they'd get used to it. They'd get used to him.

He was _safe_.

October turned into November, and he kept saying it. He was safe. Maybe he didn't have a lot of friends left, but the ones he had were good ones. Tyler was a good friend. Tyler was his best friend. Tyler was pretty much his only friend, but it didn't really matter. He had Tyler, and together, they were safe.

He was still telling himself that as he and Tyler stood in the parking lot after the Sadie Hawkins Dance, as he glanced up and caught Tyler shyly looking back, as their hands brushed together once, twice, fingers almost catching. Because this was more than just two friends goofing off at a high school dance; it meant something, something huge and intimidating and totally unexpected. But it was okay. He was with Tyler. He was _safe_.

He was still telling himself that right up until the moment when hard hands shoved at him, sending him sprawling forward onto the rough pavement. And out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tyler stumbling backwards, two guys leaning in and shoving at him, and then someone was sitting on his chest and crushing all the air out of him, and he couldn't speak. But even if he'd been able to, he wouldn't have said he was _safe_.

He wasn't safe.

He'd never been safe.

 

*

 

Somehow -- he's still not really sure how -- he managed to talk his dad into letting him go back to school on Monday.

He thinks it might have just been the shock, that his father was too stunned and confused to realize that Blaine was in no state to go back to any school, let alone _that_ one. And as for himself... he's still not really sure what he was thinking. If he was thinking. But that same stubborn impulse that drove him into that school in the first place brought him back even after they'd made it clear he wasn't wanted.

And when a football player took one look at his bruised face, his two black eyes, and shouted "Nice eyeshadow, faggot!" Blaine still didn't leave. He'd only been in the building for a minute; he hadn't even gotten to his locker yet. And here was this guy laughing about it, and his friends hooting and cheering and high-fiving him. And maybe this guy, this asshole football player who thought bruises were so funny, maybe _he'd_ been the shadowy figure sitting on Blaine's chest, crushing the breath out of him; maybe _his_ had been the hands reaching out for fistfuls of dirt and grass and smashing them into Blaine's face, suffocating him until he felt like he was being buried alive. Maybe that was why he was so happy right now. Because he'd been there when it happened.

Or maybe he hadn't been there, but his friends, his laughing, high-fiving friends, maybe they had.

Or maybe none of them had been there and they'd just heard about it. Maybe it was someone else.

The thing was, there were so many people at this school, and Blaine didn't really know that many of them. He didn't know the tall, creepy kid who stared at him all the way through English class, stared so hard that Blaine couldn't stand it and had to leave the room and spend the rest of the period hiding in the boys' bathroom on the third floor. He didn't know the guys who snickered when the gym teacher took one look at him and quietly pushed him towards the bleachers. He didn't even really know the kids he'd once called his friends; the kids who _still_ wouldn't look at him in the hallway or say anything to him in the cafeteria or even _try_ to stand up for him when he walked into his biology class at the end of the day and the entire back row started whistling and cheering.

He'd thought he'd be alone at Dalton. It never occurred to him that he could be every bit as alone right here at home.

And yet, when he got home from school and found his dad waiting there with worried eyes, all he could do was smile and say that it hadn't been so bad. That he was fine. That most of the kids felt sorry for him. It was the first time he'd ever lied to his father, and he hated it even more than he'd hated fighting with him, but at the same time, he couldn't admit that he was wrong, that all the anger and the disappointment and the hurt feelings had been for nothing. He just... he couldn't do it. So he lied. He lied and lied and maybe his father wasn't fooled -- probably he wasn't fooled at all. But he watched him with wide, solemn eyes, and said, quietly, "All right, Blaine. If you're sure this is what you want."

And Blaine said that it was.

He didn't sleep that night.

The next morning, he got up, and got dressed, and forced himself to eat his breakfast and smile for his father, and he went back to that school, where everyone was a stranger.

He told himself that it would get better. He told himself that maybe they wouldn't get used to him, but he could get used to them. He told himself that it wouldn't happen again. He told himself that he was safe, like he'd done all along, only this time, it didn't seem to help. Every time someone laughed, he flinched. Every time someone nudged past him in the hallway, he stopped dead in his tracks. Because any one of them could have been there, laughing as he choked on mouthfuls of dirt and blood. Any one of them could have told Tyler to shut up when he gasped out that short, barely audible plea for _someone, anyone, please_. And every time someone so much as looked at Blaine, it hit him all over again -- that first, hard shove; the slow-motion sense of falling; the pavement scraping his hands.

He wasn't safe. He _wasn't_.

By Thursday morning, the fear had congealed into a solid mass, resting somewhere in his stomach. He skipped breakfast, and barely ate any lunch, but it didn't help. He spent most of fifth and all of sixth period hiding out in that same third-floor bathroom, and when that wasn't even enough, he grabbed his backpack and just ran, out of the school and all the way home.

His dad wasn't home yet, but his mom was; Blaine saw her car in the driveway as he made his way up to the house. It occurred to him, far too late, that he'd probably get in trouble for skipping out on classes; that she'd be mad and that his dad would be _really_ mad, and for just a second, he thought about turning around and running right back to the school again. But he was so tired; his legs wouldn't carry him that far, and even if they could, he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to walk into that building. But he couldn't go into the house, either, because he didn't want to get in trouble for skipping school, because then he'd have to tell them why he'd done it. Which meant that he'd have to admit he was lying, and he couldn't do that.

He didn't know what to do, and finally, he just sat down on the front steps with his backpack on his lap and waited for something to happen.

It didn't take very long. He probably hadn't been outside for more than ten minutes before his mom came out, her feet bare under the hem of her jeans, sat down next to him, and wrapped her arm around his shoulders.

"I don't feel well," he said, still stubbornly trying to pretend that he wasn't falling apart. "I think I ate something weird at lunch."

"Oh, Blaine," his mother sighed, pulling him in a little closer, reaching up to tangle her fingers in his hair and push his head down until it rested on her shoulder. "All right," she said, after a little bit. "Did you want to go upstairs and try to sleep a little bit? It might..." She paused, as if considering her words. "Or you can have the couch for a bit. I'm sure that model show you like is on somewhere; it always is."

Blaine swallowed hard. "I don't... I don't want... I just..."

"All right," his mother said again, and helped him up to his feet. She led him into the house, through the living room and into his father's study, and Blaine hadn't even thought about it, but it was kind of exactly where he wanted to be. He wasn't sure how she'd known. "I'll get you a pillow," his mother said, patting his arm. "And some tea."

"Tea fixes everything," Blaine said, the words coming out before he could stop them. His mother _always_ made tea for him when he was sick or sad or even once when he had a really bad sunburn; it was kind of a joke for the two of them, that a good cup of tea would fix everything. Except tea couldn't fix this. Nothing could.

"Oh, Blaine," his mother said again, and kissed his forehead before leaving the room.

Blaine sat down on the couch, dropping his backpack on the floor next to him. There was an old, ugly, brown and orange afghan draped over the back of the couch, something his great-grandmother had made before he was born; Blaine reached out to snag it, to wrap it around himself. He felt sick and he was starting to shake, probably because he hadn't eaten anything, but also because... Just because. He'd been lying for so long, and he couldn't do it anymore -- he'd have to tell them _everything_ , and he'd get into so much trouble, and why couldn't he have just gone to Dalton? He should have just gone to Dalton. He would have been _safe_ at Dalton. And now he'd screwed everything up, and they probably couldn't even get him accepted over there anymore, and he wasn't sure what they'd do but he couldn't go back to his old school anymore, he just --

He'd screwed up. He'd screwed everything up.

He slumped into the couch, holding the blanket tightly, and stared at his father's desk. Sometimes, when Blaine was sick and his dad was home, he'd lay down on the couch here and watch his dad working. And his dad would stop every once in a while, and look up and look over at him, like he was checking to make sure that Blaine was okay, and Blaine would smile at him even if he felt awful, and his dad would smile back and go back to work. And Blaine would close his eyes and drift off for a little while, because he knew that he was _safe_.

And that was what he needed right now. He needed to feel safe again.

But there was no one sitting at his dad's desk, because his dad had late classes on Thursday and a meeting with one of the post-grads after that, and he wouldn't be home for hours. And Blaine just couldn't feel safe when he was this alone.

He stared at the empty space where his father should have been for a little bit longer, and then he burst into tears.

 

*

 

He fell asleep at some point, and woke up groggy and confused and not really sure where he was or how long he'd been out. His eyes burned and ached like he'd been crying, and he knew he didn't want to open them, but he wasn't totally sure why. Maybe he was afraid of what he'd see. Or afraid of what he wouldn't see. Maybe he was afraid of a barren desk, an empty chair, maybe he just wanted to pretend that his dad was --

"Blaine," his father said, quietly, and Blaine managed to force his swollen eyes open.

His dad wasn't sitting at his desk. He wasn't smiling. He was crouched in front of the sofa with his eyes wide and worried and fixed on Blaine, and as soon as Blaine looked back at him, his dad leaned in and pulled him close, tucking Blaine's head under his own chin and wrapping him up in his arms and just saying "Blaine, Blaine, _Blaine_ ," over and over.

And Blaine knew that he wasn't in trouble, not like he thought he'd be, but in a way, he kind of felt _worse_. He hated fighting with his dad, and he hated lying to him, but most of all, he hated seeing his dad _scared_. And his dad was scared now, scared for him, and it was his fault, and he hated it so much.

Blaine burst into tears again, grabbing at his dad's shirt and just holding on as tightly as he could. He couldn't really feel the words coming out of him, but he could still sort of hear his own voice, weird and choked and babbling away, saying "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just -- I was so _scared_ and I -- I know I said I could but I can't, I can't, I just -- Dad, I _can't_."

And his dad cradled him against his chest, and said, "It doesn't have to be Dalton; I know you don't want Dalton, and that's fine, Blaine. It's fine. We'll find something. Anything. But it has to be somewhere you can be _safe_."

Blaine clutched at his dad's shirt and cried, and heard himself saying "Anywhere, anywhere, just... just don't send me back, _please_. Because I _can't_ \-- I can't go back, I can't, I --"

"You won't, Blaine," his dad whispered. "You won't. I won't let you."

And three months ago, those would have been the worst words Blaine's father had ever used around him. Three months ago, those words would have been stifling, oppressive. Three months ago, those words would have started a fight that might never have stopped. But that was three months ago, and this was now, and all Blaine could do anymore was cling to his father and sob into his shirt and say "I was so _scared_ ," as his father held him tight and secure and said "I'm sorry," and "I was too," and "I'm so sorry, Blaine," and "You're not going back. You'll never go back."

"I won't," Blaine whispered. Because his dad was scared too; his dad was so scared that he was crying, and nothing had ever felt as awful as that. "I promise. I won't."

 

*

 

They never actually looked at any other schools.

It had nothing to do with Blaine's dad, and everything to do with Blaine. He wasn't sure just when it had happened, but sometime in between the moment where Blaine realized he was too terrified to step inside his own house and tell his parents the truth and the moment where Blaine woke up to find his dad hovering over him, he'd made up his mind. If his dad wanted him at Dalton, he'd go to Dalton. He owed his dad that much, after everything he'd put him through.

The thing was, though, once he got to Dalton, he realized that he really _liked_ it. It was hard, academically, but that was actually mostly a good thing. He liked the challenge of it, that it kept him interested, made him think more than his old school had. He was never going to be the smartest kid in the whole school -- he was pretty sure that at least half the kids there were actual geniuses, which he was not -- but he was smarter than he'd ever given himself credit for. He liked that; he liked discovering that part of himself.

And, more than that, he liked how easily the kids reached out to welcome him, that they wanted to sit with him at lunch, that they wanted to take him out to coffee, that they wanted to invite him to join their glee club. He liked that, when he was hanging out with David and Wes, and David asked if Blaine was seeing anyone, and Blaine (stuttering, palms sweating, and feeling a little like he was about to throw up), admitted that he was gay, David just blinked and said "Yeah, but... That's not what I asked, though. Like, you don't _have_ to be single if you're gay. You could date someone." Like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like there was nothing wrong with Blaine at all.

(And then Wes kicked David under the table, and looked at Blaine with solemn eyes, and said "You transferred from a public school, right?" And when Blaine nodded, suddenly uncomfortable with the way Wes was looking at him, like he knew _everything_ , Wes reached across the table to put his hand over Blaine's and said "It's okay. What matters is that you're here now." He waited until Blaine looked up at him and managed a smile; he squeezed Blaine's hand, and then he said, "But if you _are_ single, seriously, never take advice from Thad. The man is deranged. He has maps of Crawford. _Maps_. Apparently, he's still trying to figure out a way to get in so he can talk to their soloist from Sectionals; I asked him why he didn't just send her a message on Facebook and he said that was classless. Because hiding in a garbage can is so much more dignified, honestly --"

(And that was the one and only time they ever talked about it. Because, really, that was all they needed to say.)

Blaine liked Dalton. He liked it a lot. And if, sometimes, he thought a little bitterly about his old school, and how hard he'd tried to fit in there and how much he'd wanted to stay and how much it still pissed him off that they'd gone to such lengths to drive him out... Well, he'd get over that, eventually. And if, sometimes, he thought about how all those people had hated him, and how they were still waiting out there, in the world outside of Dalton, and the thought was so horrible that he could barely sleep... He'd get over that, too.

He'd forget all about it, someday. And when he did, he'd remember how to feel safe again.

 

*

 

Except, of course, he doesn't forget it.

Two years later, he's still at Dalton, and he still likes it, but at the same time, he's still not totally over what happened at his old school. Which is unfortunate, because suddenly there's this beautiful, extraordinary, _exceptional_ boy struggling through the same situation, and Blaine's too tangled up in his own memories and fears and nightmares about dark, shadowy figures looming over him to actually be able to help much. Sometimes, he wants Kurt to battle back against the bullies, to win a place for himself at the school he loves. Sometimes he thinks it'd be better if he just dragged Kurt off to Dalton and made him stay there forever, because maybe he'd be a little less happy, but he'd be a whole lot safer. Mostly, though, he wants Kurt to have what _he_ wants, whatever that is.

It turns out that Kurt wants a lot of things.

Most of them are things that Blaine can't give him. He can't make Karofksy come to terms with who and what he is. He can't make McKinley as safe as Dalton, and he can't make Dalton as insane and wonderful as McKinley. He can't get the Warblers to Nationals; he can't give Kurt the trophy he wants so badly.

What Blaine can do, though, is listen as Kurt paces up and down the common room at Dalton and hashes things out. He can help Kurt get ready to talk to his dad about transferring back to McKinley. He can drive the Warblers down to Lima to give Kurt the kind of goodbye he deserves, and then he can drive _back_ to Lima a few hours later and take Kurt out for a nonfat mocha, because he's not ready to say goodbye yet. He can hang out with Kurt's friends; he can go to Kurt's prom; he can be there for Kurt while he takes all these chances, does all these dangerous things that Blaine could never really do. And sometimes, he almost thinks that he should be jealous, but he can't be, somehow. Because this is what Kurt wants.

And yeah, sometimes Blaine looks at Kurt, the way he is after a day at McKinley, still buzzing with excitement and full of stories to share, and he wants that too, a little bit. But he wants it a little bit less every day.

Besides, he already has what he really wants.

He has Kurt.

 

*

 

"Do you ever think about it?" Kurt asks, his voice soft and a little shy, hesitant. "Transferring back to your old school? Or... I mean, it doesn't _have_ to be that school, but... you know. Public school. Not that I -- I just... I want you to be safe, but I also want you to be happy. And I know you're safe at Dalton, and I know usually it seems like you're pretty happy there too, but then sometimes you say things and I wonder if you're _really_ \--""

Blaine takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, looking up at Kurt. His head is on Kurt's lap, and Kurt's fingers are in his hair, and it's funny how this has turned into a sort of ritual for them, like coffee at the Lima Bean and Tuesday nights at Breadstix. They might not do it every day, or even every week, but sooner or later they always wind up back here, in the study, on the couch. It feels almost like some kind of therapy.

Maybe Kurt should be a therapist. He'd be good at it.

"Yeah," Blaine says, eventually. "Sometimes, I still think about it. But I..." He shifts a little in Kurt's lap, reaches up to cup Kurt's cheek in his hand. Kurt's skin is always so soft, and Blaine loves touching it, even if it's just rubbing his thumb over Kurt's cheekbone or grazing Kurt's knuckles with the back of his hand. _The brushing of fingertips_ , he thinks, and almost smiles. "It was hard," he admits, and Kurt presses a kiss into his palm. "At my old school. Not that it wasn't hard for you, too, before the Bully Whips and everything, but --"

"When I asked you to prom," Kurt says, still hesitant. His thumb rubs absently at Blaine's temple, like he's trying to soothe away a headache. "You said that you went to a dance at your old school, and you were... You were beaten up."

Blaine nods, swallowing hard. "Yeah," he says again. "And I... I tried going back, after, but it was... I couldn't do it. It was too hard. And I think it was -- I _know_ it was hard on my dad, too, having to see me like that, and I don't want... I don't want to do that to him again."

Kurt gives him a little smile, but it's a sad one. "Okay," he says, quietly. "I understand."

"But it's not just --" Blaine traces the line of Kurt's cheekbone and his jaw, and tries to find a way to put it all into words, the way he feels right now. He's pretty sure it's impossible, but he tries. "Kurt, I am happy. I am _so_ happy. With Dalton, with you, with... with everything. Okay?" And he means it, that's the thing. Because he likes Dalton; he likes where he is with his dad right now, that his dad doesn't have to worry so much about him anymore. And he loves Kurt, and he loves watching Kurt take on McKinley and _win_ ; he loves that he gets to be there for all of it. And, honestly, that's enough for him. If he had anything more, he probably wouldn't know what to do with it. "Okay, Kurt?"

Kurt nods solemnly, but he looks a little relieved. Blaine wonders if Kurt would actually want him to go back to a public school again if he knew everything, if Blaine told him the whole story. Probably not, honestly. "Okay," Kurt whispers. "Okay. Good. Because I want you to be happy."

Blaine glances back at his father's desk, at the chair where he'll sit tonight, looking over his students' work, scribbling notes and corrections in the margins, only occasionally peering back up at the couch to make sure that Blaine is still there. Then Blaine looks up at Kurt, watching over him, his eyes so beautiful and worried and _loving_ , and he smiles.

It's taken Blaine two and a half years to get to this point, and not a single day of it has been easy, not really. But right now, he wouldn't change a single thing about any of it.

"I'm happy," he says again, and cups Kurt's chin in his palm, and Kurt traces the ridge of his browline and smiles back at him, and for the first time in a long time, Blaine feels absolutely safe.


End file.
